


a place for you to love me

by JHarkness



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-17 00:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11264022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHarkness/pseuds/JHarkness
Summary: “Do you recall, in my first nights as your slave, when you asked me to share Lagertha’s and your bed?”Ragnar, his lips stretched in a rueful grin, clasped Athelstan’s hands in his own. He slid his hands down until they reached Athelstan’s elbows. To Athelstan, Ragnar’s fingers felt like the flames from the fire he had sat by the night before.Ragnar blinked. “I do.” He continued stroking Athelstan’s forearms.“If you asked now—”





	a place for you to love me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [13thDoctor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/gifts).



> I binge-watched the HELL out of Vikings, and of course, being me, fell hard for Athelstan and Ragnar. And then, again being me, I did some research on Vikings and homosexuality (the problem with being a gay history major is that you can never resit in-depth research on historical queerness), and this was the result. I know I'm 500 years late to the fandom but I really enjoyed this. I hope you will as well.

Kattegat’s waters were still in the morning. The snow had ceased falling for a time, and no wind stirred the surface of the lake. It looked like it might ice over soon; the usual blue was darkening into a gray like the storm clouds in the sky, and fish had abandoned the waters for somewhere warmer. Athelstan did not blame them. Having left his furs in his modest home, he could feel the cold seeping into his bones. He reached down to brush his fingers through the fallen snow. Some stuck to his skin, and without knowing why, Athelstan brought the crystals to his mouth and painted his lips with the snow. He closed his eyes and shivered.

Athelstan did not open his eyes until he felt a familiar, strong hand on his shoulder. Ragnar curled his fingers into Athelstan’s collarbone before shaking him. “You will catch cold. What are you doing out here?” he asked, voice high with concern. He wrapped both arms around Athelstan’s shoulders and pulled him against his chest—as he had done to Björn when he was just a boy—and immediately Athelstan felt as if the cold had been chased from his body, Ragnar a hunter and the freezing temperatures his prey. Leaning back into the warmth, Athelstan sighed. He let the silence stretch a while longer. It was enough to be held.

“Athelstan? Did you fall asleep?” Ragnar shook him again. Athelstan, though he was facing the docks, knew Ragnar was smiling.

“No,” Athelstan finally replied.

Ragnar hummed, unconvinced. He patted Athelstan’s chest as if he meant to let go but did not; instead, he tucked his chin between Athelstan’s shoulder and neck and watched the water disappear on the horizon. A comfortable silence filled the air, a jarring contrast to the conflagration and celebration and sacrifice that had ended not many hours before. Athelstan had stayed awake into dawn and to watch the sun rise. He would not be surprised if he could fall asleep now, in Ragnar’s arms.

“You should sleep,” Ragnar whispered. When he released Athelstan, Athelstan felt the cold as if it was an axe, burrowing deep in his chest. He suppressed a gasp but shuddered all the same. It was a quick walk from the shoreline to the King’s halls, though, so Athelstan gritted his chattering teeth and kept pace with Ragnar, keeping his hands at his sides rather than wrapping his arms around his shoulders as he wanted. A small part of it was a pride—a large part of it was the hope Ragnar’s hands would find their way there instead.

As they reached the deck stairs, Athelstan stopped. He reached his hand out to grasp Ragnar’s forearm so that he would stop as well. Ragnar turned to him with a gentle grin.

“What is it?” he asked. Athelstan began to answer when he was interrupted by a child’s scream.

The scream was not one of pain. Instead, Ubbe, a wooden-dagger in his hand, rushed Ragnar with as fierce a battle cry as he could muster. A wild smile stretched over his face. He withdrew his arm from Athelstan’s grip to defend himself from his attacker, but it was too late. Ragnar laughed and fell to the deck, clutching his side where he had been ‘wounded’ by Ubbe’s blow. Athelstan shared in the laughter and watched as Hvitserk appeared from the shadows and joined in the takedown of him and his brother’s unsuspecting enemy. All three, father and sons, wrestled on the floor until Ubbe and Hvitserk, breathless, prevailed and left Ragnar dead on their makeshift battlefield. Reveling in their victory, they rushed to the docks. It was not long before they took up arms against one another, giggling shrilly and offering what they thought were good battle threats as they fought.

Shaking his head, Athelstan sat beside Ragnar’s ‘corpse’ and watched the children. Ragnar turned his neck to watch them, too, chest swelling with pride.

“I had not thought you would go to Valhalla so soon, dear friend,” Athelstan remarked, trying unsuccessfully to chase the laughter from his voice. Ragnar smiled, teeth bared, and clutched at his side again, reaching to Athelstan for a dying man’s comfort. Athelstan ignored the irrational shock of pain it caused him to even watch Ragnar play at death and took the hand he offered. He pulled Ragnar up to sit beside him.

Björn was next to appear from the hall. He was still stepping into his boots when he walked out, as well as yawning like he had slept as little as Athelstan. Since he was here and not with his wife and child, Athelstan knew he had not; for a moment he felt the same pity and distaste for Björn as he had felt when Björn was a child, and considered speaking his mind. Ragnar could tell. He nudged his boot against Athelstan’s shin gently, catching his eye before shaking his head.

“Father, Athelstan,” Björn greeted. He stretched. He looked so tall, so broad in the doorway, that Athelstan could hardly believe he was the same Björn he had helped raise. But then, following the sounds of his half-brothers fighting, his eyes sparkled with the mischief of childhood, and Athelstan once again recognized him.  Though soon his eyes shifted to the lake, and he remarked reasonably, “It is freezing earlier than last year. We should check our winter provisions, and call a thing so that we may warn other children of what Ubbe and Hvitserk’s recklessness caused.”

Ragnar nodded and glanced up at his first son. “Tonight,” he motioned to the pile of ashes from last night’s bonfire, “we can build a fire from those ashes and discuss the future of our people.”

Athelstan respected Björn as a man, but not enough to ignore his role in raising him. “Will you bring your daughter?” Athelstan asked, ignoring Ragnar’s glare. Björn bristled but did not respond. Instead, he passed both men sitting on the deck and walked down the stairs.

“I will greet Ubbe and Hvitserk, and then I will go to see our winter stores.”

When he was out of earshot, Ragnar kicked Athelstan’s shin with more force than before. Athelstan kicked back.

“It was not your place to ask him that,” Ragnar chastised.

“It was as much my place as yours. I did not father him, but I raised him, too.”

Athelstan could tell Ragnar wanted to protest, but he could not find a veritable argument, and conceded.

“How he hated you.” Ragnar chuckled, surveying his young children turn their murderous intentions away from another and toward Björn. Athelstan nodded and looked down at his hands. Many things had changed in that time. He looked up. The years had given Ragnar more scars, more lines, but they had not taken away from his majesty. His beauty. Athelstan was struck by his profile, and traced with his eyes the skin on Ragnar’s body which was visible to him.

That skin was what had kept him up through the night. Athelstan had finally understood his longings for Ragnar when he was in Wessex, when Judith had confessed her feelings for him and he realized he felt those things as well, just not for her. It had frightened and confused him. Yet, sitting with Ragnar, he felt neither frightened nor confused. Athelstan felt emboldened.

“Do you recall, in my first nights as your slave, when you asked me to share Lagertha’s and your bed?”

Ragnar, his lips stretched in a rueful grin, clasped Athelstan’s hands in his own. He slid his hands down until they reached Athelstan’s elbows. To Athelstan, Ragnar’s fingers felt like the flames from the fire he had sat by the night before.

Ragnar blinked. “I do.” He continued stroking Athelstan’s forearms.

“If you asked now—”

Ragnar shook his head and, gritting his teeth, interrupted, “I would not.”

Embarrassment, absolute and consuming, buried itself in the pit of Athelstan’s stomach. He tore his hands away as if burned by Ragnar’s fire. His face was hot with shame, so he turned from Ragnar, breaths coming in shallow gasps. Ragnar was looking at the ground, but when Athelstan tried to stand, Ragnar again gripped his shoulder; he held Athelstan in place until he was sure Athelstan would not move, and then took Athelstan’s hand in his own again. Absentmindedly, Ragnar stroked the crucifixion scar on his palm.

“I only mean I do not want to sleep with Aslaug again.” He spat on the ground. “You should not share a bed with that woman.”

Relief washed over Athelstan. He was overjoyed by the simple misunderstanding, by Ragnar’s obliviousness, and felt his heartbeat quicken.

“I do not mean to share a bed with Aslaug. I never did,” he explained, huddling closer to Ragnar. Ragnar started, eyes widening. He cocked his head to the side. “I mean to share myself with you—only you, Ragnar.” Athelstan’s voice was a whisper. Despite this, he met Ragnar’s gaze with confidence. But Ragnar looked pained, conflicted. He gripped Athelstan’s hand so tightly it began to hurt; Athelstan said as much, and Ragnar released him, apologizing profusely before hanging his head.

“You should not offer this to me.”

“Why?”

“It is not right for you to want to please me in this way.”

Athelstan scoffed. “You think I ask to please only _you_? I ask for myself as well.” His voice softened, and he reached to lift Ragnar’s chin until he could see his eyes again. “Why do you look away from me?”

“If I look at you I will accept.”

The burn of lust—a foreign but not unwelcome sensation—spread through Athelstan, more acute than his earlier embarrassment and much more pleasant. He trailed his fingers down Ragnar’s throat but watched his lips, parted as he breathed the cold air. Clouds of breath mingled between him and Ragnar.

“I asked you because I thought you would accept, and because it is what I want also.” Athelstan was more insistent now. He did not understand why Ragnar was acting so strange. Cupping Ragnar’s face in his hands, Athelstan pressed their foreheads together, wondering why Ragnar objected to being even closer. Beneath clothes, beneath skin. Athelstan could choke on his desire.

Ragnar curled his hands over Athelstan’s ribs. “You do not understand.”

“Help me to.”

Yet Ragnar was already withdrawing himself, pushing Athelstan’s hands away and standing. Athelstan ignored the sting the rejection caused and stood as well; he had not been intimidated by Ragnar for many years, and he was certainly not going to stand down now. Ragnar growled, but it was out of frustration, not anger. He looked upwards, to the gods.

Athelstan narrowed his eyes. From his understanding of Ragnar’s gods, this was not something they would look upon unfavorably. He decided to comfort him anyway.

“This is not something I ask lightly, Ragnar. My God considers this to be sinful, but—Lord forgive me—I think He is wrong. I love you...” He had meant to say more, but the way Ragnar’s eyes shone when Athelstan said he loved him was unbearably beautiful, and when Ragnar embraced him, he was left breathless. Ragnar still smelled like blood from the sacrifice, like alcohol and smoked meat and fruit.

“I love you,” Ragnar replied, with all the wonder of a child and all the conviction of a holy man. He exhaled loudly, and again pushed Athelstan away until he could regard him at arm’s length. “This is why I cannot do this, do you understand?”

“No, I do not,” Athelstan wrung his hands together. He did not like feeling both so wanted and so unwanted at once; worse still, it was not that he was unwanted, but rejected all the same. He continued, urging, “Please explain yourself.”

“I do not wish to insult you—”

“By explaining yourself?”

“—Athelstan, let me finish. You are beloved to me now, so I refuse to betray you this way. The gods do not object. No, the gods accept us, but it is your honor that must object to this. We only take slaves and prisoners in such a fashion. We do this to make them less than the men they are.  I asked you before to share my bed because I wanted you, but I did not want to hurt you or have sex with you without your consent. So now it is impossible.” He chuckled then, but it was humorless. “If only you had not waited so long to ask me.”

Ragnar brought his own thumb to his lips, kissed it, and then pressed it to Athelstan’s lips. Athelstan grabbed his wrist. He opened his mouth, feeling the top of Ragnar’s thumb slide against his teeth. Like when he had painted his lips with the snow earlier, he did not have a reason why he then licked Ragnar’s thumb, other than that some hidden part of him wanted to. Ragnar’s face contorted to try to hide his want.

“I am asking you to insult me, then,” Athelstan said. He dropped Ragnar’s hand. “I will not feel like less of a man for your love. You have fathered many sons—” Here he looked to Ubbe and Hvitserk, covered in snow and mud, and to Björn, chasing them, “—and pleased the gods, and now I ask you to have me.”

Ragnar’s response was quick. “When?”

Athelstan was caught off-guard—which, from the smirk on Ragnar’s face, was what had been intended. He gaped, open-mouthed, until Ragnar bent forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips. Ragnar pulled away almost immediately, checking for unwanted witnesses. The feel of his kiss lingered.

“What?”

“You say you want me to have you, so I would like to know when.”

Athelstan decided. “Today.” His voice was stronger than he felt. It was Ragnar’s turn to be caught off-guard. Eyes widening, he swallowed and licked his lips excitedly.

“When today?”

“Now.” Athelstan gasped the word.

“I’m glad.” Ragnar’s voice was almost a growl. “I have ached for you too long to wait.”

Athelstan’s blood stirred, rushing fast from his head to his stomach, and then lower. One look from Ragnar, he thought, could send him to his knees. He was ready and willing to yield to him in any way he wanted. His skin burned, aching to be touched, and he felt his body curving toward Ragnar, pulled my some invisible force.

Ragnar spared a look toward his hall, where Aslaug slept, and the docks, where his children played, and shook his head. “Not here.” Athelstan nodded and regretfully stepped back once more. Closing his eyes for a moment, Ragnar considered something—Athelstan did not know what—and then whispered, “Come with me.”

Athelstan did, gladly.

Ragnar led Athelstan to the mountains, to the place where Athelstan had taught him the Lord’s Prayer, and laid him down in the grass.

_Please don’t hurt me._

_I could never hurt you._

He was gentle when he pushed passed the tightness of Athelstan’s body, and gentle when he moved in him. He took his time. He kissed every patch of skin, every muscle, every scar he could reach; and his hands followed, parting Athelstan’s knees and thighs and making circles on his shaking stomach. Athelstan watched the waterfall on the side of the mountain. He listened to the rush of water, to the birds in the trees above him. Ragnar’s breaths were louder in his ear.

_Slowly, please._

_Yes._

The pressure building inside Athelstan was overwhelming. He fell to his elbows, and Ragnar pulled him up again, his chest to Athelstan’s back, his arm across his torso. Athelstan wished he could see Ragnar’s face. He strained his neck backward so he could kiss him. Ragnar shifted to meet Athelstan’s mouth, and the change sent an explosion of heat through Athelstan’s body. Ragnar’s lips did little to muffle the cry that pushed past Athelstan’s throat. He could only see white for a time, and wondered if he had gone blind. But the world came back into focus, and with it the feeling of Ragnar still inside him, still searching for what Athelstan had found.

_Do not stop._

_I couldn’t if I wanted to, Athelstan._

It did not take long. Athelstan felt Ragnar empty himself into his body and in the same moment became breathless, as if he could have only one or the other. He would take Ragnar. Ragnar, with his hands that slowly eased Athelstan to the ground. Ragnar, who separated himself from Athelstan with reluctance. Ragnar, who laid down next to Athelstan and pulled him into his arms.

_I love you. Please stay._

_I love you. I will stay._

Athelstan’s thighs were slick. His belly, too. He stretched himself against Ragnar and forgot the mess. It did not matter.

What mattered was just Ragnar and the sun on his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> This was somewhat inspired by Siken's:
> 
> “Moonlight making crosses  
> on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one.”


End file.
